


lay down your sweet and weary head

by yewgrove



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Established Relationship, M/M, Spoilers for S5, [fabric rustles], canon compliant (as of ep 170), gay conversations to pass the time while hiking through the apocalypse, they are both doing their best at learning how to love and be loved, this is just 3k words of Jon And Martin Talk To Each Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yewgrove/pseuds/yewgrove
Summary: He sleeps, every now and again. Not too often, though. Jon still isn’t sleeping, and if there’s one thing guaranteed to make writhing in the grip of discomfort and nightmares even more uncomfortable and nightmarish, it’s having someone sit next to you and watch the whole time. The alternative, of course, would be Jon wandering off and leaving Martin to sleep alone, which is objectively a much more terrible idea, so The Naptime Nightmare Show Starring Martin Blackwood it is. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.Or, a conversation about dreams.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 27
Kudos: 244





	lay down your sweet and weary head

**Author's Note:**

> (throwing every single one of my emotions into a doc) this counts as a fic, right  
> no major cws, but a few tiny little bits of their respective canon-typical self-worth issues. they may be going through it but they're in love and going through it together  
> title is from into the west, aka the return of the king end credits song

It's not exactly a surprise that Martin's sleeping badly. Even disregarding — well, everything, he and Jon never find themselves trudging through anywhere _comfortable_ , and the sky is constantly leaking some horrible omnipresent glow, which shutting his eyes does almost nothing to block out. Of course Martin's sleeping badly. The whole world's full of inescapable horror, why should Martin Blackwood's naps be the exception? It's still infuriating.

He's sleeping less than he used to. At least, it's hard to keep track of time, but he thinks he sleeps less than he used to. He could probably get on without it entirely, to be honest, but he doesn’t want to try. Jon would probably prefer it if Martin stopped wasting time on naps, but Martin had gotten him to compromise, because, well. As horrible as sleep is, now, it's a way of imposing some kind of normalcy, some kind of routine. It's the same reason he’s still eating (every now and again, when he remembers, and when he can bear to). Same reason he'd been trying to talk to the Fear-afflicted people they met (if you could call it 'meeting'). If you sleep, then there's a time _before_ you went to sleep and a time _after_ you woke up. The Ceaselessness of the Ceaseless Watcher disrupted, maybe, just a little bit, by that shred of mundanity. Or something.

So he sleeps, every now and again. Not too often, though. Jon still isn't sleeping, and if there's one thing guaranteed to make writhing in the grip of discomfort and nightmares even more uncomfortable and nightmarish, it's having someone sit next to you and watch the whole time. The alternative, of course, would be Jon wandering off and leaving Martin to sleep alone, which is objectively a much more terrible idea, so The Naptime Nightmare Show Starring Martin Blackwood it is. That doesn't mean he has to like it.

When he wakes this time around, it's to Jon’s hand on his shoulder, his grip uncomfortably tight. Martin doesn’t remember his dreams, but judging by the sore prickle of his eyelids and the wetness on his cheeks, he’s going to take a stab at 'worse than usual'.

'Martin!' Jon’s grip tightens even further, then relaxes, deliberately. His hand stays on Martin’s shoulder. Martin can feel it through his jacket.

'Hmm,' Martin manages. His throat hurts — ugh, God, was he shouting? He hopes he wasn’t shouting.

'You're awake,' Jon says — sighs, really. The relief in his voice is audible. He's using the tone Martin loves best, the one that Martin would previously have termed his 'Happy to see Martin' voice, except that it's the voice he uses pretty much every time he talks to Martin these days, so he's starting just to think of it as 'Jon's voice', and isn't that something.

'I'm awake,' Martin agrees. Everything aches. He feels absolutely no less tired than when he closed his eyes. 'Was I yelling?'

'A bit. It’s all right, there’s nothing around to hear.' Jon gives his shoulder a pat, then takes his hand away, fixes the full weight of his attention on fishing the water bottle out of their backpack and handing it to Martin.

'Right,' Martin says awkwardly. All his bones yell at him as he pushes himself into a sitting position, shaking out the wad of crumpled jacket he’s been using as a pillow. Jon's still not looking at him. 'Thanks. Are you… good to keep going?'

'Mhm.' Jon nods, but he's not actually moving, and Martin feels a stab of guilt and frustration run through him, because they've _had_ this argument. He _knows_ Jon gets antsy when he sleeps, would rather keep going until they both drop. He's been respecting Martin's wish to keep trying anyway, in that 'doing-his-best' respectful way, the one that tugs at Martin's heartstrings because he's never had anyone who's tried as hard for him as Jon does. But it's still worrying Jon. Martin knows what it looks like when Jon's gearing himself up to be worried.

'I just don't understand,' Jon says; yep, there it is, 'I don’t understand why you keep putting yourself through it.'

'We’ve talked about this,' Martin reminds him, even though he's starting to feel like really they've only had half of this conversation, the half that Jon had been able to articulate at the time. 'I know you're not sleeping, but we both still need rest. We can’t just walk forever.'

'I know,' says Jon. He zips up the backpack again, reaches out a hand to pull Martin to his feet, the soft scratch of his palm against Martin's an unspoken apology for raising the subject. 'I know, it's just — it really doesn't worry you?'

'Everything worries me, Jon, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.' There's a pause, into which Jon's face creases. 'Jon,' Martin prompts.

'I couldn't wake you,' Jon says. It's hollow, hurt-sounding, a hole for the wind to blow through. 'When you're dreaming. I can't wake you up.'

Martin frowns. 'You said it was safe. I've only been going to sleep when you give me the all-clear.'

This is the part of the argument they've had before, the one where Jon had told him it was an unnecessary risk for him to sleep, because it meant putting himself in danger if something came along and Jon couldn't wake him up, and Martin had pointed out that it was no different from Jon losing himself in his statements or venting or _whatever_. Jon's shaking his head, though.

'That's not it,' he says. 'Or, it is, a part of it. You snapped me out of it, in the Desolation's domain. I don't like the idea that I couldn't do the same for you, if you needed it. But that's not what I meant.'

'Then what?'

'You have nightmares.'

'I'm aware,' Martin tells him. 'I don’t remember them, remember? So it’s fine.' He picks up the backpack, letting the rough fabric of the straps graze through his fingers, and takes a step. He's got no idea whether he's headed in the right direction, since every way looks equally unappealing, but he assumes Jon will redirect them if it's wrong, so. Off they go again, another fun 'day' in the apocalypse.

He knows he's being short with Jon, is the thing; knows he needs to apologise. Maybe Jon's right, and Martin should sleep less. He's just so sick of waking up tired.

'Even if you don't remember them,' Jon pursues. 'It doesn't bother you?'

'Well, it's not like I'm enjoying them,' Martin says.

'Unlike me, you mean?' Jon's voice is heavy, ironic, with a dash of bitterness that catches Martin off guard. He hates that Jon's feeling that way, hates that he doesn't know how to help.

'What?' he says, uselessly, incredulously. 'No, Jon, I didn't mean—'

'I wouldn't blame you if you had,' Jon says. 'That _is_ what worries me, really. The watching.'

Martin keeps walking for a minute, imagines the sound of their crunching footsteps as the grinding of his teeth, because if Jon absolutely must watch, Martin doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't like the idea of Jon seeing all his nightmares, doesn't want a witness to whatever mess of fear and anxiety and trauma-garbage Martin's probably toting around in there. He knows Jon loves him, but even so. There's no way Martin is going to come out of his nightmares looking anything other than pathetic.

'Well, they're my nightmares, Jon,' he says. 'I mean, it's my head they're happening in. I don't see why they need to bother you.'

He can hear himself being rude. Rude and ridiculous; there's no reason Martin should be feeling so stung by this, except they've _talked_ about Jon Knowing things about Martin. The idea of Jon watching all his nightmares, knowing while Martin forgets, gives him that same prickle of defensiveness. And Martin _knows_ , okay, he knows he needs to share more of his fears and anxieties and all the things he's ashamed of and embarrassed about, he's _working_ on it, but is it so bad to want to do it on his own terms? It would be easy, after all, to dump all his negative emotions on Jon in an indiscriminate flood, to let it all out without ever having to say it. Dropping fear on Jon is kind of the universe's whole thing. But it wouldn't be healthy, wouldn't have been a healthy way to communicate in a relationship even before the apocalypse, let alone now, when they're the only person the other has to talk to in a world that's continually exposing them to burst after scouring burst of undiluted fear.

Martin's so caught up in his thoughts that it takes him a second to realise Jon's footsteps have stopped. He spins quickly, sees Jon a couple paces behind him, looking at him. The deep worry-lines on his forehead are deepening again. The expression in his eyes is open, though, their dark glow spilling patience and concern and guilt, almost too much for Martin to bear.

'Of course it bothers me that you have nightmares,' Jon says, low and earnest. 'You didn't think it would hurt me, seeing you upset and in pain and knowing that there's nothing I can do about it, that despite all my _powers_ I can't do a thing to make it stop? That I've just got to stand by and wait and watch you suffer in your sleep like I’m the — the monster under your bed? Yes, it bothers me.'

Oh. Martin feels the world shift and resettle around him, a little, the way it does whenever Jon reveals some new depth of caring, of the kind Martin's not used to. The honest answer is that he hadn't thought about it, not properly. He's been selfish, fixating on and fretting over all the ways he could possibly have been inconveniencing Jon, bar, apparently, the most important one: that seeing Martin unhappy makes Jon unhappy, for no other reason than that Jon cares about him.

Jon's face is still a little bit taut, but he's looking at Martin with a smile, or at least something in the general vicinity. Well, if Martin's honest, it's more like Victor Frankenstein had attempted to build a smile out of the corpses of a whole lot of worry and rueful concern. There's love in there too, though, so Martin's qualifying it.

He lets himself think about it from Jon's perspective. He'd assumed — what? That Jon was so accustomed to witnessing horrors that a few bad dreams wouldn't be anything more than another drop in the ocean, an inconvenience rather than an injury? He thinks about seeing the person you love routinely putting himself in the path of unspeakable fear and being unable to do anything to alleviate it. Thinks about standing guard alone, over and over, immersed in nightmares you don't have the luxury of forgetting.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'I didn't realise — I mean, I never thought you'd be _enjoying_ it, but I didn't think about how it must be for you.'

'It's all right.' There's understanding in Jon's face now, too. He shakes his head, and oh, Martin's got to do something about that pretty quick, before Jon goes all martyr-y and starts going on about how it's his Deserved Responsibility to Bear Martin's Suffering, or something.

'No, it isn't,' he says. 'It's not fair. You shouldn't have to go through that, on top of everything else.'

'I'm fine,' Jon protests, with the air of someone realising belatedly that the conversation is getting away from them. 'I'm not _complaining_ , Martin, that's not what this is about. I just — I see how bad they can get, and I'm worried about you, but if you want to keep on trying, I'm not stopping you. I'm here for you.'

'I know,' Martin says, and means it. He still doesn't want to let go of sleep entirely, but maybe they can work out a better compromise. 'We'll talk about it,' he promises.

The back of Jon's hand brushes past him, and he takes it, giving it a clumsy little squeeze as they turn by unspoken agreement to start walking again.

For a minute or two, neither of them break the small silence that's fallen over them. Then Martin takes a breath.

'So… are you going to tell me what I was dreaming about?'

Jon stops again, grinds to a halt beside him. 'What?'

Martin considers bringing up the stop-and-starting, teasing how they'll never get anywhere at this rate. A glance at Jon's face dismisses the idea.

'I mean, it's only fair, isn't it,' he says instead. 'I know I told you I didn't want to hear it, but they're my nightmares, my head. You shouldn't have to… carry the burden of them all yourself.'

'Martin.' Jon sounds, inexplicably, pleased, with a hint of surprise curling through his tone. 'I haven't been watching your dreams. I don't know what it was about.'

'You — what?'

'I haven't been watching,' Jon repeats, with fervour. 'You said you didn't want me Knowing things about you. I _assumed_ that would extend to Knowing what you're dreaming. I've been keeping it in check, refusing to look.'

'Right,' Martin manages. There it is again, the world shifting quietly around him, his understanding of Jon's love settling even deeper into his bones. If he'd actually bothered to think about it, it's not like he'd have thought Jon would want to invade his privacy on purpose, not after they'd talked about it, but — well. He hasn't had a lot of experience setting boundaries, that's all. Even less of people actually respecting them. And here's Jon, again, proving that he listens to Martin, that he cares about him, that even in the midst of everything he's still dedicating himself to caring for Martin. Maybe Martin needs to start trusting that.

'Okay,' he says. He can feel himself smiling, broad and tired. 'Um, thank you? I guess? Thanks. Although, if you haven't been, you know, then why does it bother you so much when I —'

Jon's mouth is a wry twist of love by this point. He reaches out to scrub a hand over Martin's cheek, the corner of his eye, where the dry residue of tears is still tickling. 'You're a very emotive sleeper. It's not all that difficult for me to tell when you're having one of your more disquieting dreams. It just... hurts me, seeing you upset. That's all.'

Martin's at a loss for words. Jon's face is worn, impossibly dear; looking at it, Martin feels more rested than he can remember. He takes a deep breath, letting his lungs stretch and relax.

'You could tell me anyway,' he suggests. 'My dream, I mean. I know you didn't see, and I don't think I'd want to hear it if you had, so instead can you just… make something up? I'm sick of having bad dreams, I'd really like to have a good dream instead for once, so. Tell me the dream I ought to have had, if this was all...' He waves his hands. 'You know.'

Jon frowns slightly. 'I don't… You're the creative one.'

'I'm a poet, not a storyteller,' Martin says. 'Anyway, this isn't writing. More like improv, if anything.'

'I did improv,' Jon says, with the perfect level of _casually-in-passing_ , and Martin can't help the delight of his reaction.

'Really? When?'

'At uni. _Briefly_ ,' Jon stresses, like he's unaware of Martin's rising glee levels. 'Standup, too.'

'You did standup comedy?'

'I'm not sure I'd go that far,' says Jon. 'It only happened the once. I was definitely standing up. Georgie says the _comedy_ element was less present and more, ah, implied.' Which Martin takes to mean that Jon's humour hasn't gotten any less _Jon_ over time.

'I know you're only telling me this to distract me, but it might be working,' he says. 'Really, Jon? You, standup?'

'Ask Georgie,' Jon says. 'She still claims to remember bits of the set.'

'And you don't?'

'Mmm.'

'Shame.' Jon definitely, definitely remembers, and Martin knows that he remembers, and Jon knows that Martin knows, and it's all an absolute delight, but it's not what Martin was after. 'Will you, though? Tell me a dream. Not like we've got much else to do while we walk, unless you've suddenly remembered your standup routine.'

There's another, momentary, hesitation. Then Martin brings out a 'Please, Jon,' and that clinches it.

'All right.' Jon's voice is hesitant, reassuring. Martin mentally settles himself against it. 'I should warn you, I don't have much experience with pleasant dreams.'

Nor did Martin, really. Daydreams were a whole different creature; he could daydream like a pro, always had. Jon's continuing, though.

'How about, ah, a dream about the safehouse? I know it got… unsettling… towards the end, but I liked being there at first. It was… homely.'

Martin thinks about the stillness of their first mornings there, back when waking up meant silver-warm light and the shuttered call of birds in the hush and the way Jon's face looked when he was sleeping, back when Martin could watch him sleep and not the other way around. 'Yeah, all right. Dreaming about the safehouse. Sure.'

'It's got some more books on the bookshelf in your dream, though.' Jon's brow furrows a little, warming to his task. 'A couple of boxes' worth, at least, because you'd complain about there being nothing to read otherwise, since apparently an atlas and fifteen-year-old tour guide brochure of the best surrounding walks 'don't count' as reading material. So, you're sorting out the bookshelves. I doubt you'd let me help with that even in a dream, so I'm probably in the kitchen.'

'Oh, you're there?' Martin's voice is, admirably, steady. He tries to keep it light, tries not to touch on how heavily nightmarish the idea of Jon's absence is, how grateful he is that Jon understands that.

'Non-negotiable,' Jon says. 'I'm texting. And helping — there are decorations. Handmade, paper…'

'Paper chains?' Martin fills in, before Beholding has a chance to do it.

'Exactly. We used to have them at holiday parties in the Archives, so these are those.'

'Care to tell me why we're decorating?'

Jon bites his lip, like he's deciding something, but what he settles on, apparently, is, 'Housewarming party. We can skip forward a bit, if you don't mind, since I don't think the accurate passage of time is something dreams are concerned with.'

'Go ahead,' Martin says. He's absurdly charmed by this, by how seriously Jon is taking it. Plus, surprisingly, it is actually managing to take his mind off the weariness.

'I realise,' says Jon with a hint of self-conscious dryness, 'that I appear to have backed myself into the corner of planning a party. Luckily, it's your dream, so I'm holding you responsible if it turns out to be a disaster. I'd imagine… it's an afternoon thing, not a dinner party, because I don't trust any of the people invited to pull off the level of decorum required, but there's food. People have brought food. And — board games, maybe? And we're showing off the house. We've done some renovations, and you're nervous because it's technically still Daisy's house and you don't know what she'll think, but I can tell she's impressed.'

The smile on Jon's face is bittersweet, now. Martin reaches for his hand again, fits their fingers together. 'You said people,' he says. Carefully, gently. 'Which people?'

'I —' Jon starts. Then he stops again, collects himself. 'Everyone,' he says. 'They're all there. All the people we want to be there. Melanie and Georgie, of course. Basira too. Daisy's there, and she's… And others from the Institute, like Rosie — I didn't know them particularly well, but you were friendly, and I knew them enough to miss them.' Jon's breath skips a little before he continues. 'Tim. Sasha.'

Martin's eyes are welling with tears. He wipes at them with the heel of the hand that’s not holding Jon's.

'They're all there,' Jon says again. 'And they're happy. That's — I don't know if that was what you wanted, but it's the best dream I can imagine.'

'I wish I could tell them.' Martin wipes his eyes again, sniffs. 'About us, I mean.' He indicates their joined hands. 'This. I'd like them all to know.'

The faint ghost of a wince cycles across Jon's face. 'I hope Tim and Sasha would have been happy for you. I wasn't doing much in the way of deserving you back then.'

'They'd be happy for both of us,' Martin tells him, and feels Jon's fingers tighten in his for a second, drawing a momentary reassurance. 'And… proud, I think. Of what we have.'

'Which is what?'

'Love,' says Martin, a little too firmly. His grip on Jon's hand is a little too firm, as well, but he doesn't loosen it. He needs Jon to know that he means it. 'Thank you for… that. The dream. It helped.' He's surprised to find he means that, too.

'Is that the sort of thing you're hoping to get out of it?' Jon asks. 'From sleeping, I mean. Why you're still putting yourself through it, even though it's not necessary.'

Martin, heroically, resists the urge to roll his still-watery eyes at Jon, because he can't ever let a thing drop, can he? Still trying to understand.

'Not exactly,' he says. 'Here.' He stops walking, pulls Jon to a stop alongside him, leans down. Jon fits against him like he always does, folding into the kiss like it's where he belongs.

'That,' Martin says, and punctuates it with another soft brush of a kiss, just for emphasis, 'that wasn't _necessary_ either. Except that it reminds me who I am, reminds me of what's important. The normality of it — it helps keep me going, and I'm not willing to lose that. We can't lose everything that's not necessary to the journey, or we won't know what it was all for when we get there. Or how to behave after.'

'Martin.' Jon's voice is soft again, soft with wear, like a t-shirt that's been washed too many times. 'Do you really think there's going to be an _after_?'

The honest answer to that is _I have to_ , because if he loses the ability to keep pretending, then he's almost certain that he'll lose the ability to go on. That feels like too much to say right now, on not enough sleep. 'I'm stubborn about it,' he says instead. 'If I give up sleeping now, _imagine_ the state my sleep schedule will be in once things are back to normal. It'll be a shambles. I'll be worse than you.'

Jon gives a chuckle at that. It's short, but warm, and Martin plays it over again in his mind, fixing it into his memory.

'All right,' Jon says. 'I… think I get it.'

'Yeah? Good.'

'Although,' Jon starts. It's his teasing voice now, and Martin prepares himself for whatever it is he's let himself in for. 'If kissing meets the same purpose as sleeping. Are you sure we shouldn’t just…'

'Absolutely not. No, Jon, we are not giving up on rest in order to spend all our breaks kissing.' Martin's doing a terrible job of pretending to sound shocked and appalled. The amusement gets out. He doesn't even bother _trying_ to conceal the fondness.

'You said it, not me.'

Honestly, Jon might be onto something, if the ease that's settling over Martin's heart at the sight of Jon's smile is any indication. 'In your dreams,' he says, and lets the fond glance that earns him buoy his tired steps, and they keep on walking.

**Author's Note:**

> all i ever do is cry about jon and martin having conversations. come hang out on tumblr @ [archivisims](https://archivisims.tumblr.com)  
> thanks for reading!


End file.
